“All right, Michelle,” Cliff said, setting his drink on the dresser. He adjusted his slacks and sat in the middle of the floor between some boxes. He reached his hand up to hers and tugged gently to bring her down with him. She eased to the floor and sat facing him, cross-legged, the way she did when she meditated.
Cliff reached across Michelle’s knees and took her hands in his. Cassie is dead, it sounded like Cliff had said, but there was no way she’d heard that correctly.
*****
It took Cliff an hour to calm Michelle down. He had coaxed her into taking another Xanax and she finally fell asleep. Checking the bathroom mirror, Cliff rubbed his fingers over his cheek where Michelle had scratched him during their scuffle. He never knew what set of memories she would operate from upon waking, if she would mourn Cassie’s death or pretend that Cassie was up in her room listening to music. Cliff had assumed Cassie’s death would become easier over time, but it hadn’t, partly due to Michelle’s lapses into denial. “Are you picking Cassie up after practice or am I?” she’d ask. He’d thought it was some cruel form of punishment, a deliberate mocking to remind him that he’d killed their daughter. But she had shown no emotion, no hostility or sorrow. Doctors said she was experiencing temporary breaks with reality, psychological schisms. Medication helped, only to leave Michelle vulnerable to the full impact of Cassie’s death again, like tonight. A maddening and tedious cycle. Cliff wasn’t sure how much longer he could take it.
He stood in the backyard, recalling all the times Cassie had practiced swimming laps. After a while, he went inside to straighten up the house. He thought about Michelle traipsing through the woods up at the cabin, how she’d retreated into the undamaged world she’d created, the place where she believed Cassie was still alive.
Maybe purchasing the cabin hadn’t been a good idea. Cliff had hoped it would steer them away from their preoccupation with Cassie’s death, using the remodeling to patch the rough spots. They’d had fun tearing down old paneling, hanging drywall, building closets, taking breaks out on the deck, snacking on chips and dip, apples, crackers and cheese. In the evening they’d order pizza or play Rock Paper Scissors to see who would drive down for Chinese takeout. One night when Cliff had put out his fist and Michelle her open palm, he had been afraid to leave her alone, but she insisted she was fine and that he wasn’t going to weasel out of going into town for dinner. Loser also had to pay.
When he’d returned, Michelle was sitting on the floor, knees to her chest, staring blankly at the darkness beyond the sliding glass doors.
“How could you kill our daughter over that fucking whore!” she had said. “You killed our daughter over her!”
The memory of it left him raw.
Several times a day Cliff thought of selling the dealership, the house, everything, and moving back to Maine. He could work for his brother, sell suits. Michelle had loved Maine—beachcombing for shells, sleigh rides in winter, the gray, deserted ocean. Or they could move back to Philadelphia, where they had met when he was attending the University of Pennsylvania. She often talked of how she missed the history, the street life, the museums. A fresh start. That’s what they needed. He wished they’d done it years ago, before he’d ever met Glenda.
That awful night, he and Glenda had been in the middle of a spat. Cliff—with a few beers feeding his superiority—had believed his actions would be invisible to Cassie and Michelle, that his agenda would fly undetected beneath their radar.
“Dad, where are you going?” Cassie had said. “We’re going to be late for the meet!”
Glenda had turned her cell off, shutting Cliff out. Her apartment was only fifteen minutes out of the way. “I have to see a car wholesaler,” he’d told Cassie. “It’ll only take a minute.” Cassie protested with new vigor, pointing at the clock. Speeding down the entrance ramp, Cliff never saw the truck in the outside lane. The Cherokee flipped suddenly upon impact, rolling several times before coming to a stop upside down at the edge of the median. Rescue workers pulled him from the vehicle, carried him to the side of the highway, draped a blanket over his shoulders. A fireman wrapped a towel around his left hand to stem the bleeding until the ambulance arrived. Cliff could see that the driver’s side of the Cherokee was hardly damaged, while the passenger side was crushed.
Cliff leaned against the bookcase and studied the framed photo of Cassie. He would never forget the image of the upside-down Cherokee, lights from the fire engine flashing off the chrome wheels. He hated that the last thing he’d told his daughter was a lie.
*****
Michelle was tired of sitting by the pool and went up to Cassie’s room. One of Cassie’s dresser drawers stuck out, the one with the milky discoloration where Cassie had draped her wet swimsuit over the front. Michelle sat in the middle of the carpet. Cliff had assured her Cassie had been dead just over a year. Michelle didn’t know what was happening, but she knew that Cassie’s death couldn’t be among the possibilities. Before she’d gone looking for Cliff that night, Cassie had been alive. Michelle remembered the phone call, the excitement in Cassie’s voice over being named captain of the varsity swim team. Michelle had not imagined that call.
At breakfast, Michelle asked if Cliff wanted to go back to the cabin with her.
“Why? We just got home a few days ago.”
She had to get back there, find Pink Souder. Sheriff Fisk said Pink was no longer in Ardenwood, but the enormous billboard indicated otherwise. If a logical answer were to be found, it would be in Ardenwood.
“I’m going back up there,” she said.
“Can we talk about it when I get home later?”
After Cassie was born, Cliff had grown more stubborn and manipulative, pushing his version of reality over everyone else’s. Over the years, Michelle had felt herself being drawn into his world, like water flowing down a slope toward an inevitable precipice. Cliff was gravity itself.
“Look, I need to go up there,” she said. “I’ll drive myself.” She watched him fill his coffee cup, spread butter on his toast.
“We only have one car now, Michelle,” he said.
She laughed. “Cliff, you own a fucking car lot! I’ll ride in with you and bring one—”
“You haven’t driven in months,” he told her.
That wasn’t true. She’d driven most of the way to the cabin this past trip.
When Cliff finished his toast, he said, “Come take a ride with me.”
They rode in silence. When they passed the concrete monuments marking the entrance to Roswell Cemetery, Michelle sat up and looked around. “What are we doing here?”
“You need to see something,” Cliff said.
The marble was convincing.
cassie